


Hellfire

by Chaos_in_a_bottle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Awesome Bobby Singer, Blood and Injury, Brothers, Burns, Child Abuse, Dead Mary Winchester, Dean Winchester Feels, Dean Winchester Loves The Impala, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic John Winchester, Homophobic Language, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied offers of sexual favours, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, John Winchester Abuses Dean Winchester, John Winchester Bashing, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Kid Dean Winchester, Kid Fic, Kid Sam Winchester, Mild Gore, Oblivious Sam Winchester, Parental Bobby Singer, Pre-Canon, Pre-Season/Series 01, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Older Brothers, Waterboarding, We need more rufus tags, from children, none of this is tag-able
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaos_in_a_bottle/pseuds/Chaos_in_a_bottle
Summary: If anyone asked Bobby what he thought of Sam, he would have said that he was too smart for his own good, but an innocent boy. If asked about Dean, his answer would have been that he had seen far too much and felt much too responsible for other people for a child his age. Asked about John? He would have said that he was driven and sometimes harsh, but a good man who would always do what he felt was right. But when facts start to come to light he is forced to reconsider his opinions. With what's happened here, he can't be right about all of them, can he?
Comments: 48
Kudos: 143
Collections: Supernatural





	1. Paradise Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Believe me, the writing gets better as I go. At some point I will edit these earlier chapters.  
> Basically what it says on the tin. John's canonical bad parenting is worse than fannon Howard Stark's, which is honestly quite impressive. I decided that Dean is too repressed to talk about his childhood, so I wrote some sad stuff about child abuse. Fans are weird aren't we?

Sam Winchester sighed as he lent his arms against the worn-down table.

"What is it Sammy?" Asked his older brother, pausing from cleaning his gun for a second to look at his brother. Sam sighed again.

"I don't know Dean, it's just, can't we take a break from hunting and go to school or something like normal kids?"

Dean looked down at his gun again, closing his eyes briefly to calm himself down. These emotions were wiped from his face as he started to respond.  
"Dad needs us Sammy."

At Sam's incredulous look, he continued.

"He needs us. He does! Don't give me that Sammy, we need to stick together. Family stays together."  
The words had been drilled into his brain for too long to let him simply forget them, this was the code they lived by.

"But Dean! If we don't have any grades, we'll never get good jobs!"  
At that second, their father stormed into the room, throwing his coat at Dean- who hastily stood the moment he entered- and dumped a bloodied knife on top of it, ripping Dean's shirt in the process.

"What do you mean, you won't get a good job?" He knelt down and took Sam's hand in his, smiling gently at his youngest son. "Don't you worry, Sam. I'll teach you everything you need to know." He suddenly stood up and turned to face Dean who had placed the coat and knife down on the table.

"Was this you? Have you been telling Sam stories? Telling him he isn't good enough?"

"No-" Dean said hurriedly

"Don't interupt me boy! Have you been lying to Sam? Telling him he won't get a job? Have you? Answer me boy!" John yelled.

"No sir! I would never-"

A harsh slap cut off the rest of his sentence.

"Don't you lie to me boy! Apologise to Sam, then clear up this mess!" He yelled gesturing wildly to the neatly placed coat. Dean's eyes had started to tear up, had he been hurting Sam? He quickly suppressed the tears as he turned to Sam.

"Yes sir. I'm so sorry Sammy! You'll have a great job, you're amazing!" He reassured.

"Dean-" Sam started, alarmed by what was happening, but he was cut off by his father's hand on his shoulder.

"Come on Sam, let's go play a game eh? Would you like that?"  
Sam's eyes widened, and the sparkle reappeared. He glanced hesitantly at Dean, who had started to carefully clean the knife that John had given him with practiced -but tentative- ease. Noticing his gaze, John glared at Dean, managing to keep his voice level as he adressed his son.

"Don't worry Sam, Dean can join us when he's finished his chores. You be already finished all of yours haven't you?" He directed the next sentence at Dean. "See, Sam can do his chores in time, so why can't you? Sam's not even a teenager yet, but at least he manages to keep his shirt in one piece!"

Dean flinched imperceptibly at the sharp words, bowing his head and mumbling a quiet apology. He glance up and smiled at Sammy, silently urging him to have fun.

"So Sam? Do you want to play a game?"

"Okay Dad!" Sam beamed as he practically bounced out of the door into the living room, reassured by his brother's smile.

"Dad, Dad! Can we play Monopoly? I call dibs on the hat!"

John laughed out loud. "Of course son!" He quickly walked over to Dean and grabbed his collar, pulling him towards him until they were face to face.

"You had better have finished all of these chores before we've finished that game, or there will be consequences." He said, voice low. "And I had better not hear about you saying anything bad to Sam..." He let the threat hang in the air, not needing to exaggerate. Dean knew the consequences. All too well.

"Yes sir." He whispered.

"Pardon? I can't hear you boy." John snarled.

"Yes sir." He repeated, louder this time.

"Good." Was all John said as he walked away, grabbing a bag of popcorn on the way out.

Dean could hear Sammy yelling in joy and laughing with his father, and Dean smiled gently. Sammy was happy, and that was all that mattered, he thought, as he started on the long list of tasks.Hellfire

* * *

_Hellfire_

* * *

When Sam woke the next morning, both Dean and his father were gone.

Now that he was twelve, John let him stay at home alone, and Dean went with him on hunts.

He walked into the kitchen, past the one set of dishes on the drying rack, and peering into the fridge to grab his breakfast. There was always enough food in the fridge for him. The meal was a fruit salad- out of a tin, Sam thought, even if it did look just like the ones Dean made- and a full bowl of pancake batter. Sam didn't recall seeing any mix in the cupboard yesterday, but Dean must have made some for himself. The bowl was very full, but that just meant the more for him!

He ran back to the refrigerator to grab his drink, already in a glass as it always was.

When he had finished eating he wandered over into the living room area to see what chores Dad had left him for the day.

On the small, wooden, coffee table, lay six old books.

He laughed in delight, and ran over to the table to see what they were.

The first was a history of monsters and demons, which he had read hundreds of times.

The second was a guide on how to survive different creatures, and the other four carried on the trend.

Sam sighed sadly and flopped to the floor, onto a warm blanket that Dean had given him for his ninth birthday. He had already read all of those books, and they were all the same anyway. Always about hunting.

He lay down on his back and stared at the ceiling, contemplating whether to bother reading them or not.

He decided that he should, even if it was boring, it would be something to do. With another heartfelt sigh, he rolled over onto his side, so that he was looking under the table.

He smiled brightly.

Strapped to the underside of the table were even more books. He sat up quickly, wobbling slightly as his vision span, and unstrapped the books from the table. These books were much more Sam's style.

Sam ran halfway to his room, before quickly deciding that that was a really bad idea so soon after eating, and walking the rest of the journey.

When he eventually there, he jumped on his bed, bouncing for a second before he settled down again. He laughed again as he looked down at the book in his arms - calculus for beginners. The crudely drawn smiley face on a post-it note beamed up at him.

Amongst the books were guides to law, science, history, general mathematics and Spanish - which he already knew a little of thanks to Dean.

As he sat there, surrounded by books he smiled and made a mental note to say thanks to Dad when they got home.

The first sign Sam received that his family was back, was the roar of the impala.

He had only been alone for three days, but had learned more things from the normal curriculum- normal for an eighth grader that is- than he had in the entirety of the last year.

He jumped up from his bed, falling over his duvet in his haste, and rushed downstairs, yanking the door open just before John could. He threw himself into his father's arms saying "Thank you", over and over again.

"Hey there buddy, what's this for?" John asked the child, once he had recovered enough breath to be able to speak.

"Don't pretend to not know Dad." Sam said, mock glaring. "I know that it was you who left me those books, honestly, who else could it have been?"

Sam paused his rant for a split second to smile at Dean as he walked past with heavy bags full of weapons and clothes. He took a deep breath in preparation for more ranting, but was cut off by his father's deep laugh.

"Okay, okay, you caught me. But what's so surprising about that?" He asked slightly confused by his son's enthusiasm.

"You've never given me ones that were that interesting before! I almost didn't find them too! I bet that was a test wasn't it. That if I found them I was allowed to study them or something!" Sam babbled excitedly.

"You liked them that much?" John asked, beaming, "Which was your favourite?"

"Oh, the one about law for sure! It was so cool reading about all the different rules that congress set, and..."

John stopped listening to his son's babbling, instead, focusing his glare on the back of Dean's head. Dean visibly shivered and hurried into the kitchen.

"The one on law huh. How interesting." John murmured.

* * *

_Hellfire_

* * *

Sam awoke that night to a suprised cry of pain, before the noise was abruptly cut off. It was so brief that Sam thought that he must have been dreaming, so he rolled over and went back to sleep.l

* * *

_Hellfire_

* * *

By the next morning, Sam had completely forgotten about the noise, and woke bright and early, completely refreshed. Bouncing downstairs, he skipped into the kitchen to find Dean leaning over a hissing pan of oil.

Dean, in contrast, had large bags under his eyes and pale skin, and was completely focussed on his cooking. Sam giggled silently as he hid behind the door, preparing himself for the surprise attack.

Sneaking up behind Dean he suddenly launched himself onto Dean's back, giggling as he landed piggy-back style. Dean stumbled as the sudden weight pressed down on him, knocking the pan and sending hot oil everywhere.

Dean staggered backwards, slamming his brother against the edge of the table, clutching his arm to his chest. Sam fell to the floor with a cry, a sharp pain shooting up his spine and coaxing tears to his eyes.

"D-Dean?"

When he received no answer, only the harsh rejection of his brother's back, his breath hitched and tears spilt out of his eyes, as he turned and ran away.

When Dean heard the breath hitch he turned towards where the noise came from. He couldn't think straight, and could barely comprehend what had happened. Someone had attacked him and he had reacted, just as Dad had always taught him.

So why did he feel that he had made a mistake?

Sammy. Where was Sammy? Had the attacker got him too?  
He spun around, frantically searching the room for his little brother.

"Sammy?" He called out, his voice cracking slightly in fear.  
Dean turned towards the window to see Bobby's beaten up truck pulling into the driveway.

Frantic to search for his brother, Dean grabbed the door handle, only to recoil as his muscles tugged on his burnt skin.

He swore quietly as his body crumpled in on itself, his body shielding his arm from the world.

He barely heard the sound of tires on the gravel over his own pain, but what that meant, hit him like a jackhammer. Forcing himself to unravel, he quickly wiped the remaining oil off his skin and yanked the door handle towards him, blocking out the pain.

Sammy was more important. Running outside he saw Bobby's truck in the distance, a small figure looking back at him.  
"Sammy..." He whispered, falling to his knees. "Sammy... what have I done?"

Gravel crunched behind him as a hard hand grabbed him and pulled him up by the collar.

"That's something I would like to know too boy..."


	2. Pergatorium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bobby takes Sam away, Dean is left with John. Bobby wonders what the hell is going in.

**Minnesota **  
**** Not even the soothing rumble of the engine could calm Bobby as he drove down the long roads back to his home. How could Dean have done that to his little brother? They all knew he had a temper to rival his father's, but he had never thought that he could...

But little Sam slumped over in the passenger seat of his truck with still- glistening tear tracks down his face, was surely proof enough. He didn't know what to think. They were his boys and God be damned if anyone thought he was going to abandon them. _Either_ of them.

* * *

_Hellfire_

* * *

**Minnesota**  
Dean flinched back hard from the hand that grabbed his collar, instinctively throwing his body away even as his legs struggled to find purchase on the loose gravel drive. The hand slipped from it's grip at his neck, causing Dean to fall hard to the floor, stunned from hitting his head in the fall.

His vision swam before him as a tall grey blur move towards him, bright blue behind it encasing it in a dark silhouette.

Dean whimpered, his flight instincts kicking in. Hands scrambled desperately in the gravel, all coherent thoughts completely lost to the throbbing in his skull and sheer shock.

The only thing that managed to pierce that thick fog was the deadly-sharp blade of pure fear that coursed through his body at the familiar shape. He couldn't remember who it was, but even his subconscious was terrified of the figure.

His efforts were futile, the blurry figure stopped in front of him, what he could see of its face contorting into a sneer as it raised a heavy boot. Pain burst across his face and it all went black. The last thing he saw was the gravel scattering from the impact.

* * *

_Hellfire_

* * *

**South Dakota**  
The gravel kicked up under Bobby's truck as it struggled through the unfamiliar trail he had led it down.

He should have stuck to main roads- God knows that's Hunters 101 if you need to get somewhere without running into any nasties- but he had had a bad feeling in his gut since he picked up a crying Sam from outside the Winchester's house.

Another crucial rule of Hunters 101- which he should really make into a real book at some point- was trust your instincts, but this was about Sammy. He couldn't afford to leave him when he didn't know for sure that something was wrong.

A sniffle from beside him snapped him out of his thoughts. He had to concentrate on Sam.

"Heya Sam. How are you feeling?" He asked, softening his rough voice as much as possible.

"I... I don't... I don't understand Bobby." He whispered, "What did I do _wrong_?"

 _'What the hell is going on?'_ Was the main thought on Bobby's mind as he barely resisted the urge to slam his fist into the steering wheel.

He cleared his throat. "Well... I'm sure that Dean didn't mean it." The words sounded flat even to his own ears. "You know he loves you right Sammy?"

Loud sobbing accompanied the end of his sentence. Balls! He thought that he was doing okay at the 'comforting' thing, it wasn't like he had much practice.  
"Balls!" He muttered to himself as he pulled the van over to try to comfort the child.

* * *

_Hellfire_

* * *

**Minnesota**  
Dean woke up suddenly to a sharp pain in his cheek. He drew in a sudden violent breath at the sting, sputtering through the water that dripped down his face. Blinking slowly, Dean struggled to see through the haze that swarmed his vision.

"S... Sam... Sammy?" He asked blindly, attempting to reach out and chafing his wrists against harsh rope. Another slap spun his head to the side, making his already blurry vision spin.

"You don't deserve to say his name boy! It's your fault that he's gone!" Came the shout, vibrating though his head.

The words hit him harder than the slap did.

Gone?

Dean's thoughts tumbled around in his head, bouncing off his skull as an unrelenting throb.

Gone? Where had Sammy gone? He wouldn't have just... left him, would he? But... but if he hadn't left them, then that meant that it was the other type of gone. The type that you didn't come back from.

Was his little brother... he couldn't even think it. No. No he must have left. Surely? If Dean had been more coherent at the time, he might have thought that the second option was much more likely to be true. Their father had never bothered sensoring himself around them- or Dean at least.

Dean had always done his best to have Sammy asleep or at least out of the room when their father started describing in detail how he had killed the newest monsters.

Dean knew that he should be glad that they were removed from the world, - he knew that, his father had told him often enough - that his father was like an unpayed exterminator, cleaning the scum that infested every town or city. 

But he still threw up after he heard how the blood drained from the still-screaming bodies - and how he related to them now, if this was how it felt with just fists - or saw a detailed drawing of how best to make someone talk and their reactions to each dreadful step.

If Dean had anything to say that would have stopped this, if his father had been trying to get information, he would have said it before John even took off his belt and turned his mutilated wrists to face the sky. Maybe he was weak, trying to find a way out, when he knew that many of the monsters- the _scum-_ had died before giving up their knowledge.

John had always had a twisted kind of affection for those brave few.

But Sammy wasn't like him and the monsters. Sammy wasn't scum, he didn't deserve to be on a cold floor, all alone like they were.

(Personally, he didn't think that they deserved that either, but he made sure not to as much as _think_ that around his father. He deserved it at least.)

But if Sammy wasn't dead- shouldn't dead, couldn't be dead- then that meant that he had left them- left _him_ \- all alone. That Sammy thought that he wasn't good enough- _never good enough_ \- hit him like a punch in the gut. _Oh_ , he thought faintly as he heard the crack, _that's a broken rib_.

His broken lips cracked into a equally broken smile through the looming haze of unconciousness. Somehow it felt like penance.

* * *

_Hellfire_

* * *

**Outside of Sioux Falls, South Dakota**  
The beaten-up truck drove slowly under a large sign that read "Singer Auto Salvage". Bobby winced at every jolt over the uneven ground, cringing when he heard a soft thump against the window beside him. Luckily, Sam didn't seem to stir from his sleep.

Perhaps he should re-surface the scrap yard, but to be fair, this wasn't exactly a situation he had expected. Maybe he should have, but he would be prepared if it happened again.

Bobby pulled the old truck up to the parking spot as gently as he could, pulling up the stiff handbrake with a creak. Lifting the small boy out of the truck, he noticed that he was actually quite a healthy weight for a boy his age, which, considering how often hunters eat take-out, was quite a surprise.

It must have been the boy's height that made him look thin. However, this anomaly held his attention for only a moment, his thoughts quickly turned back to wondering whether he should have stayed and talked to Dean and John, as he carried the boy into his house.

He had planned on staying for a few days to see how they were all doing, but when he had seen Sam with tears pouring down his face as he ran towards him, begging for Bobby to get him away, well what could he say to that? So he had driven back to Sioux Falls and tried to gently pry what had happened out of Sam, but he had ended up crying himself to sleep before he had the full story.

Tucking the boy into the spare bed, he couldn't help but notice just how young he was, and how young the brothers were.

No, he didn't think that Dean had meant to do this. He knew that Dean would be capable of it, he thought as he walked down the stairs, being raised as a hunter does not make a child who is afraid of getting their hands dirty.

God knows that he had been capable of more than that at the same age, but Dean loved Sam. He was the most protective boy that he had ever met. He would probably die for his little brother.

_What the hell was going on?_

Well, he mused ironically, if the whisky didn't clear it up, at least he might get some sleep.

  
Halfway through nursing his first glass, the phone rang. Spilling whisky down his front, he absently picked up the phone, trying his best to wipe off the alcohol with his other hand.

  
"Singer." He murmured.

  
"Bobby. It's me." He sighed as quietly as he could. John was a good man, but a difficult one at the best of times. Perhaps that was harsh, Bobby wondered, given that he was phoning to find out how Sam was. He was just a very... _dedicated_ man.

"How's Sam?"

"Hello to you too John." Was Bobby's snide response.

"Fuck you Bobby. How is my son?" He was convinced that he could hear teeth grinding through the phone.

"He's fine, a little bruised, but mostly just shaken up." He said, slightly ashamed. "How's Dean?"

"Dean?" Bobby wondered at the mostly concealed confusion hidden at the simple word.

"Yeah, Dean. Your other son." The urge to call them "his boys" was strong, but the last time he had, John had thrown him out and not spoken to him again for months.

"Dean is... He's fine." He narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the hesitation, mentally running through in his mind what it meant.

"Put him on." He ordered.

"I think he's been crying, but here you are." Bobby was sure he must have been mistaken in hearing the muttered "pansy" whilst he waited.

"Bobby?" The voice was broken and grating, but still made him sigh in relief.

"Yeah boy it's me. How're you doing?"

"Not good. It's just Sammy, Bobby. How am I meant to make up for this? I hurt him! I hurt him and I was meant to protect him, I didn't mean to Bobby I swear, but he surprised me and I reacted and, and-" Dean's voice became more and more panicked, and his breathing was coming harder and harder.

"It's alright boy. It's alright Dean. When I explain what happened to him, he'll be running back to pester you in no time okay?" Gratified by the slowing breaths through the phone, Bobby relaxed back into the armchair, the old leather squeaking and groaning.

"I don't know what to do Bobby. I swear that the night has never looked so dark..."

All the relaxation that Bobby had had vanished in an instant. His body now drawn up and stiff as a board, he lowered his voice to whisper through the phone.

"Can he hear me Dean?"

"No Bobby, I can get a hold on myself on my own. Dad's here too to help me, he's just gone to get a drink. Did you know that bats can hear really well? It said so on the TV. I didn't know that, but if Sammy were here he would have told me how it worked in that lecturing mode of his." To anyone else, he would have sounded like he was breaking down again.

Bobby just got the message.

"Just hold on Dean, I'm coming to get you." He promised.

"Yeah, maybe it's better that you took Sam, I look like a mess at the moment. And you're a good hunter so I'm sure you can save him if he was hurt."

"Sure Dean. I'm coming."

"Bye Bob-"

"See, he's fine. Maybe you should stay with Sam for a couple of days, make sure that he's okay." John's voice was the last he heard before the infuriating noise of being hung up on rang throughout the room.

"Yeah _John_ , I see. If you really are who you say you are, I'll raise the boys myself." He vowed as he pulled on his boots. He sent a drowsy Sam out the truck, grabbed his duffel bag, his car keys and a shotgun, and left the house, beckoning his massive Rottweiler as an afterthought.

From the empty house, the sound of an engine roared, like a lioness protecting her cubs.


	3. Into The Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby goes on a road trip to save Dean, but has to drop off Sam with an old friend first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented, bookmarked or left kudos, you all brightened up my month so much!

**South Dakota**  
Bobby could have sworn that no matter how far he pushed the accelerator, the car went slower and slower. The methodical plodding of the truck echoed in his head, despite the multiple broken speed limits.

He couldn't push the car as much as he liked, he reminded himself, he had Sam to look after too. It would be the greatest of ironies if he killed one of his boys whilst driving to save another.

With that grim thought, he let his foot ease slightly, grunting at the stiffness in the limb. Maybe he should have left Sam at home, but after all that had happened, maybe it was best that he had support.

Of course, he wouldn't be near the action- if there was any, he reminded himself- and this was safer than leaving him alone in such a state.

 **Minnesota**  
The moments blurred together, only vague shapes and impressions registering through the haze of Dean's injuries and the tears in his eyes. He was sure, in a brief moment of clarity, that he would be feeling this pain for the rest of his life.

In the next, he hoped that that wouldn't be long.

 **South Dakota**  
"Good, you're home, I need you to look after a child." Bobby pushed a bleary-eyed Sam through the doorway, manoeuvring him around the souvenirs and trinkets that lined the walls.

The dark skin man, to his credit, merely blinked once and closed the door behind them, with an unflappability that never failed to make Bobby jealous. And if he had attempted more and more extreme methods to surprise him, well who was counting?

His friend turned around with a knowing look on his face.

"Balls" Bobby thought. Perhaps he hadn't been as discreet as he had thought.

"Bobby!" He exclaimed, his smile quickly turning into a frown.

"What's got you so down? You look ill! Here, I'll make you a glass." He half offered, turning to gesture them in.

Bobby attempted a smile, feeling almost sick from the strain of it.

"Sorry Rufus, I've got to run. Something's come up." He said, flicking his eyes over to Sam in explanation. He turned to rush out the door again, but was pointedly interrupted.

"You gonna introduce us Bobby? Your Mama teach you no manners?"

After mentally slapping himself again for neglecting Sam, he turned back to his surrogate son.

"Sam, this is Rufus Turner, he's an old friend of mine. You'll be safe with him. I'll be back soon, I gotta help your pops with a hunt. Okay?"

Sam rubbed his eyes blearily and yawned. "Sure Bobby." He murmured.

"Rufus, Sam." He announced.  
Rufus glared at his friend for a second, before shrugging.

"Eh, good enough."

He lay his hand on Sam's shoulder and led him further into the house.

"You owe me Bobby!" He yelled back as the door closed.

 **Minnesota**  
The sun glared in from the open window, searing stars into his eyelids. Dean's dazed thoughts danced like the lights he couldn't help but see.

It felt like he'd been here for years, and given the number of times he had blacked out, he dreaded to think how long it really had been. As he tugged on the bindings on his wrists, the dancing stars exploded into a supernova of white hot pain.

 **Rufus** **Turner's** **house South Dakota**  
Rufus stared at the boy before him. He had barely managed to get the child into the kitchen before he fell asleep, and it was barely five o'clock.

Now, maybe Rufus hadn't babysat a kid for a while- which translated as no one trusting him with a child- but he knew enough about children to get him through cases, and he was pretty sure that kids were usually still awake at this time. Especially one as old as him. God knows that he had been at his age.

He must be... eleven, he guessed. Ten at a minimum. Usually, people skills weren't his forte- he left that to goodie-two-shoes guys like Bobby- but when you got to his age, people appreciate you not knowing theirs. So he made a point of it to learn.

But regardless of his age, Bobby leaving a kid with him, without even giving the boy's surname? That was unlike him.

 **South** **Dakota**  
Even with his laser focus on Dean and John, stray thoughts about Sam nagged at the back of his mind. Bobby ruthlessly pushed the thoughts back; Sam was as safe as he could be with Rufus.

While unconventional,- if conventional was a word that could ever be used to describe a hunter- he was damn good at what he did, and a decent man to boot. Sam was safe, he had to focus on Dean.

 **Minnesota**  
Stabbing pain awoke him with a jolt. Drifting back to consciousness would be too much of a blessing for someone like him, clearly.

As the claws of unconsciousness dragged him back under, Dean's thoughts focussed entirely on Sam. Was his brother alive? He must be. How could Dean still be alive, so tainted, if his brother who only wanted what was best for everyone, was dead? The thought only gave him a brief semblance of hope.

 **South Dakota**  
Slowly, as he drove, Bobby's rational thought came back to him, reducing the constant scream of "Save Dean! SAVE DEAN!", to a more manageable mutter, which gradually faded to a strangely comforting white noise. Now reacquainted with his rationality, Bobby drew on the long forgotten tactics of his youth, compartmentalise what he could, and run through what he couldn't.

Sam. Sam was safe.

Dean. Dean was hurt or at least scared.

He was going to help Dean.

He couldn't do anything else until he got to him.

John. John was acting oddly.

John was in the house with Dean.

Dean was hurt.

Dean had called for help.

John had either hurt Dean, couldn't or wouldn't help him. Then again, John could be a very strict man, and would refuse to "pander" to the boy's needs if he thought that they didn't deserve it, which was much too often for Bobby's tastes.

 **South Dakota, Rufus' House**  
There was something off about the kid, Rufus decided. It had been twenty minutes since the boy woke up, and he had yet to hear a word out of him. He had heard Bobby mention Sam more than enough times, and usually in conjunction with words like loud, or "never shuts the hell up".

This silence seemed unnatural.

"What do you want for dinner boy?" He asked.

"Oh. Don't worry about me sir, I'll make my own." Came the rushed reply.

"Help yourself."

Sam walked towards the fridge, taking out the milk. Awkwardly putting down on the side, he half turned to address the older man.

"Um... where's your cereal sir?"  
Rufus blinked once.

"Cereal? For a growing boy like you? I ain't eating off silver, but i ain't poor, boy, make something."

He looked his new charge over.

"What about eggs? An omelette?"  
Sam looked away.

"You do know how to make an omelette right?" He asked incredulously.

The boy blushed and murmured something indecipherable.

"Right." Rufus uncomprehendingly. He shrugged. How hard could it be?

"Eggs it is. Thank God it's not Shabbat." He muttered as an afterthought.

* * *

_Hellfire_

* * *

Teaching the boy how to make an omelette should have been easier than it was, Rufus reflected.

For God's sake, all it involved was egg, water and some vegetables, if you really wanted to be fancy!

While Sam was worryingly proficient with a knife for his age, the rest of his "skills" were alarming in another way. Truly, he hadn't known before that it was even possible to whip eggs incorrectly. And this was without even mentioning the veritable graveyard of eggs that they went through before Sam managed to crack one correctly _a_ _n_ _d_ without losing all of the egg on the process.

"Finally!" Rufus cried out, almost out of his mind from frustration. Sam beamed, feeling like his face was about to split in two, it was so wide.

"My first omelette! Honestly, I didn't know it was so hard when I watched Dean do it." Rufus faded out the energetic ramblings about origins and ancient Persia, in favour of focussing on that one sentence.

So Dean- he was pretty sure that was Sam's brother- knew how to cook, and often enough that Sam was familiar with watching him cook. How did one son get so used to cooking, while the other didn't know how to make a simple omelette? Perhaps Dean enjoyed cooking, but it was odd that Sam had never tried.

What he wasn't surprised about, however, was John's lack of teaching.

He'd only met the man a couple of times, and that was more than enough for a lifetime. He was a hard man to know, and a harder man to like.

Rufus had been more than just _tempted_ to shoot him by the third time they met, so honestly, he had no idea how Bobby put up with him. The man must have the patience of a saint.

For that matter, he could not work out how he had managed to raise such a polite child all on his own, or how he had managed to not have got either of them killed yet. Perhaps it was the input of this 'Dean'. If he was able to even partially counteract John, Rufus would like to meet him.

 **Minnesota**  
Dean sputtered and coughed through the water being forced down his throat. Gasping in a breath of air in a brief reprieve, before the cup was once again held over his open mouth.

Prepared this time, he hastily gulped down the water to sooth his parched throat. He didn't know when he would next get such a luxury. Water trickled out of the side of his mouth, still too dry to give him control over his own muscles, cracking his lips and mingling the purity of the water with his blood.

A single tear slipped out, rolling down his face to join the water that was being used both to harm and to aid him. The twisted irony made a bitter sort of sense in his tangled mind.

 **Minnesota**  
Bobby was sure that he had never been so stressed in his life.

He was used to fast-paced, adrenalin induced actions, shooting first and asking questions later and split-second decisions based majorly in instinct.

That was what hunting was often about. He was good at it. He was good at those snap decisions, and his instincts had saved his life over and over, probably more times than he remembered.

Of course, there was also those quiet nights, sat with a computer and a whiskey, or books in front of a fire. But that was relaxed and easy. He enjoyed it to be entirely honest.

This waiting game was different to anything he had ever had to face before. He knew that someone was in danger, but there was no one to shoot, no books to read up on.

There would be no instant end to this mystery. And to make it all worse, this was his child.

 **Minnesota**  
Had anyone been near the house on that dark night, they might have heard music blaring out of the slightly open windows, and noticed flashing lights from inside.

If they had managed to listen past the deafening beat, they may have wondered about the lack of voices of the supposed rowdy teens from inside. They would have had to have positively supernatural hearing to have noticed the weak sounds of distress under the noise.

Like so many other times, no one did anything more than shake their heads and their fists. When the noise stopped suddenly and the houses was as quiet as the grave, nobody batted an eye. Inside, Dean desperately prayer for someone to help him. 

**Minnesota**  
The truck pulled up into the driveway, as if it belonged to just another average couple with 2.5 children and a three bedroom house. The man who got out of the car, however, did not fit any of these stereotypes. Perhaps he would have, but he liked to count the bunker as his bedroom on principle.

Bobby grabbed the bag from the passenger side and threw the strap over his shoulder, the black fabric camouflaged against his shirt. The only indications that the strap was even there were the indentation and the light checkered lines that led off from where it lay, merging with the plaid pattern of the shirt.

He grabbed his cap, pulling it onto his head with one hand, and closing the car door with the other.

As he walked upto the apartment that the Winchesters had been staying in, time seemed to slow.

The knock on the cheep wooden door seemed to echo the sound of blood in his ears.

The war handle of his pistol felt like fire in his other hand, barely concealed by the edge of his jacket.

"John?" Bobby called out. "John are you in there?"

The lack of reply managed to both relax and agitate him.

"John?" He called out a final time, barely expecting an answer at this point, and not receiving one.

After briefly scanning the area for onlookers, he pulled the leather case of his lock-pick set out of his jacket pocket, selecting a small hooked tool and a tension wrench, before slipping it back into his pocket.

The door creaked open at the gentlest of touches.

Bobby couldn't help but consider the shadowed hallway an omen.


	4. Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby searches the house for Dean and finds more than he was looking for.

**South Dakota**

The silence was incredibly unnerving, Bobby decided as he cracked open the door.

Overly conscious of the potential noise, he gently nudged the door open wider and stepped in, swinging his gun in an arc at everything in his line of sight. Bobby gently used his foot to close the door behind him, catching it with his hand just before it hit the frame and quietly clicking it shut.

He made his way down the hallway to the first door, patting the bulge in his coat that concealed a machete as he went. That could be tip three, he mused, trying to calm his nerves. A hunter can never be too prepared.

He edged the door open with his gun hand, doing a quick visual sweep of the small kitchen before closing it again. He stepped back, pulling the door with him and leaving it open the exact thirty degrees that it had been left at. Who said that snooker had no practical uses?

Tip four, use whatever skills you have.

A squeak of the linoleum floor stopped him in his tracks, leaning his body as close in to the wall as he could manage while still keeping his balance. His blood felt like it was going to burst out of his veins, each pulse like a war drum in his ears as he flattened himself into the wall.

One breath.

Two.

Three.

Bobby was halfway through exhaling in relief, when a noise caught his breath again. He tensed, standing still for a minute, as he strained his ears pasts the ringing silence and throbbing of his own heartbeat, searching for another noise.

There!

The sound was quiet, almost imperceptibly so. So quiet, that his breathing had disguised the sound. If the house hadn't been so eerily silent, he was sure that he would have never heard it. He focused on the noise, holding his breath as it reached his ears again. It sounded like sobbing, intermingled with harsh breathing.

Bobby mouthed a curse, all too aware of the situation to make any kind of noise. Not that that stopped him yelling expletives in his head that would have made even a sailor blush.

He took a deep, calming breath and started moving again, keeping as tight to the walls as he could. Painfully, he resisted the urge to rush through and go straight to the noise, years of training in the military and then experiences in hunting had hammered that lesson into his head, with bodies to show the learning curve.

Tip five, never trust a person in pain. Keep your guard up and search for any possible traps until you have verified who they are and you are safe. They could just be acting to make you drop your guard, and even if they aren't, someone else could just as easily use them as bait.

What kind of a rescue mission would it be if they both ended up dead?

A shitty one, that's what.

Bobby methodically worked his way through the rooms on the ground floor, each time gently pushing the door open, pointing his gun into the room, and doing a visual sweep before pulling the door to behind him.

Rule 6: Search the Goddamn Room Right.

\- Keep your weapon pointed forwards.

\- Keep your body shielded by the door while you do a visual sweep, but stay close to the wall in case an assailant slams the door shut.

\- Check under furniture from your position at the door.

\- Look behind anything suspicious like curtains, but keep your back to a wall to prevent ambushes.

\- Point your gun where you are looking.

\- And for God's sake, check behind the door before you enter the room.

Bobby checked the next room, absently noting the colourful posters and full bookcases as he did. He mentally assigned the room as Sam's, in case they needed to grab anything in a hasty exit in the event that they weren’t planning on returning. He knew that if that happened he would be keeping them as far away as possible.

He moved on, checking the rather plain bathroom and the more homely living room. Despite the threadbare couch typical of motels like this, there were games stacked haphazardly in a corner and blankets lain across the couch and chairs. He smiled as he walked further into the room, gently picking up a cheap plastic hat from a monopoly set off of the carpet and pocketing it.

It might not be as bad as it looked. This piece might be proof that not everything was as it seemed, that John wasn't behind this, Bobby thought hopefully. He did his final checks and started moving on the next room, a lightness in his step that hadn't been there before. He mentally shook himself, reminding himself sharply that Dean was still in danger, regardless of who was hurting him.

The next room was sparse and bare, but impeccably clean, with only a neatly made bed with white sheets, a simple wooden bedside table, and a wardrobe in the corner. Bobby dismissed the room as a guest room as he started checking in the usual places.

He carefully walked to the wardrobe, pulling the door open with one hand and jumping back a few feet in preparation as it swung open. Bobby had expected hangers and maybe a single shelf, but instead there were rows and rows of shelves going all the way to the bottom of the wardrobe. Lying on the shelves where clothes should have been, were rows and rows of assorted weapons.

There were shotguns and pistols lined up side by side. Machetes and long knives placed with military precision over two other shelves, one for silver and one for steel. A whole layer was dedicated to holy water and salt, and when he picked up a flask there was no line to show the dust, it was all perfectly clean. Some more archaic weapons lay on the bottom shelf, a mace, a sword, a spear. The level above it seemed to be dedicated to fighting vamps, nearing ten different stakes and multiple vials of what he assumed was dead man's blood. And there, on the floor below the sword, were some clothes, militarily folded, but nowhere near as pristine as the blades above it, whose edges gleaming even in the dim light.

Bobby blinked, somewhat stunned at the range of weapons for an unused room. He knew John, and this wasn't even close to the number of weapons that he would have on hand, the paranoid bastard.

He closed the wardrobe quietly and started towards the door, asking himself why a spare room was so well-stocked. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned to survey the odd room, wondering when he would get to Dean's room, when his eye caught on a small space under the bed.

His heart caught in his throat when he peered under the bed and saw what it was. Carefully, he tugged out the small bear and cradled it to his chest as if it was a child. The bear was old and worn, with one eye hanging by a thread and with a tear in its ear. Around its neck was the familiar amulet that Sam had given Dean for Christmas four years ago. His eyes closed unwilling as Bobby put the pieces together.

The room was Dean's.

In more of a hurry than ever, cursing himself for ever slowing down, Bobby swept through the remaining rooms, the bear tucked safely into his jacket.

He could hear Dean more clearly now, but he had cleared every room on the floor. A door tucked away in the corner caught his eye, leading, he assumed, to the basement.

The steps were stone and sheer, leading down into blackness. The crying was louder here, raw wracking sobs that ripped through their throat. The noise was inconsistent, cutting out and being replaced by deep rasping breaths. Bobby briefly considered continuing his fast pace down the steps, but another glance down was enough to dissuade him of that, especially with the sound of dripping reaching his ears. Breaking his neck would do no good for anyone.

To say that Bobby was walking down the stairs would be diplomatically put, he was forced to shuffle his way down with his back to the wall, water dropping down his back and making him shiver ever few steps.

He had a torch in his jacket but surprise was just about his only advantage here, and he wasn’t in a rush to loose it, not with Dean’s life on the line. Without any light, he had to feel for the next step with his foot, attempting to steady himself with his spare hand.

He considered keeping his gun out for a second, but put the safety back on as quietly as he could and holstered it, using his now free hand to balance. After what seemed like a lifetime, he felt for another step but only found flat floor.

He stepped forward, landing straight in a large puddle, which splashed onto the stone floor with anticlimactic puttering noises. He froze where he stood as the loud sobbing stopped, leaving just the painful-sounding breaths. Hesitantly, Bobby broke the unofficial stalemate.

"Dean?" he asked the darkness.

A choked off sob filled the air, "Bobby?" His voice was hoarse and cracking as he sniffed against his tears.

"Yeah kiddo," he murmured reassuringly, "it's me."

He patted down his coat, searching for his torch.

"Hey, close your eyes for me for a second." he said lowly, waiting for a noise of assent before turning on his torch.

Dean whimpered as the light hit his face, scrunching up his face and turning as far away from the brightness as he could while tied to a chair. His shirt was torn and splattered with blood, falling oddly on his body where it had stuck to his skin and where his arms were twisted and tied behind his back.

He gently brushed Dean's damp hair out of his eyes, hoping that actions spoke louder than words because nothing he could say would fix this.

Bobby moved around the rickety chair and reached out to cut the rope binding him to it, muttering reassurances under his breath in an attempt to keep both of them calm.

His words cut themselves off when he saw the state of Dean's arm, staring blindly with his breath caught in his throat at the raw mess that was his forearm. It looked like a burn, he thought distantly as he tried not to gag, maybe second degree. He wasn't a stranger to wounds, but they were usually of the more stab or slash variety.

And this was Dean.

A loud bank shook the house, breaking him out of his reverie. Mechanically, he started to attempt to undo the rope that tied him to the chair, but with very little success. The knots were military grade, he thought grimly, and the ropes were slick with blood, which didn't make it easier. Either someone had very good rope skills, or John's time in the Marines had not been wasted.

A curse broke the silence as Bobby dropped his hands from where they had been fiddling with the rope. Dean flinched forward violently in response, tipping the chair forward with the sudden movement. Bobby grabbed the nearest part of the chair that he could reach to stop Dean's fall- one of the beams that made up the back of the chair. Dean let out a muffled scream, biting straight through his lip in an attempt to keep quiet. As he was only attached to the chair by his arms, his whole body was suspended by the coarse rope on his wound.

The chair balanced precariously for a moment, in a fight between Dean's body and the rickety chair. His shoulders strained in their sockets from under his body weight while the chair beam flexed and bent.

Three things happened in quick succession. Bobby had breathed a sigh of relief, his eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. The room was silent, and they could just about hear quiet movements from above. The chair beam flexed...

And bent...

And gave way, splintering in half, sending Dean tumbling to the floor. The rest of the chair crashed onto the concrete around him, the loud clatter drowning out Bobby's curse of pain. Hastily tugging the large wooden splinter out of his palm, he tore a strip of fabric out of his shirt as a crude bandage, clutching the ends of the cloth in his fist and grabbed his gun with his other hand.

He looked around the room for a hiding place, but the only piece of furniture was the now-smashed chair. He glanced at Dean, who had curled himself into a small ball on the floor amongst the shards of wood where he had fallen.

"Dean. Dean are you still with me?"

There was an answering noise, which made Bobby shift his weight in response to.

"I know it hurts Dean. But I'm gonna need a yes or no here son."

The answering "Yes." barely reached Bobby's ears, but he would take what he could get.

"Listen to me son," he spoke frantically, "can you move far enough to get under the stairs?"

He could hear 'John' coming now, his military boots sending his footsteps echoing down into the small room. Dean let out a whimper, Bobby assumed he was on by the noise, attempting to drag himself across the room, it seemed from the scrape of wood on the concrete floor.

He risked a brief look back at Dean and cursed again. His hands were still tied behind his back despite the fall he had taken, so he couldn't stand or even crawl properly. Instead, he had turned himself partially onto his side and was forcing himself through the wooden splinters in a crude imitation of an army crawl.

"No boy, stop, you'll only hurt yourself." he said over his shoulder, checking the door again. What was taking 'John' so long? Dean whimpered and curled up again where he lay, dropping his head to the floor in exhaustion.

"Good job kid. You just wait right there. I'll take care of your daddy for y'. Or who ever this son of a bitch is anyway." He muttered as an afterthought.

He moved over to where Dean had dragged himself to and planted himself right in front of him, facing the door.

A creak, and the door swung open, nearly blinding Bobby with the electric lights.

"Well, well, well, Bobby Singer. What a pleasant surprise." Came the low drawl. "How about you step away from my boy, and we'll talk about this over a drink hm?"

"What is it with people offering me drinks today? Look John, " he drawled condescendingly, "I don't know what kind of black-eyed son of a bitch you are, or if you even are one. I'm not even sure if it matters. This ain't your boy. And I sure as hell ain't moving. So how about you walk right back out of that door and I'll let you live. Hm?" He said mockingly.

The click of his safety coming off echoed throughout the room.

"Or do you have a problem with that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that I keep leaving you on cliffhangers, really I am! This is much less edited than previous chapters, but I decided that I'd left you hanging for long enough, and you all deserved a late Christmas present for being amazing. Better late than never right?


	5. The Crucible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John - or is it? - is finally confronted by an angry mama bear named Bobby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for homophobic slurs - the f. word- child abuse, minor gore, descriptions of injury, child neglect and Bobby being a badass. There is also a brief mention of offers of sexual favours from a child under duress.  
> I didn't think that the gore was too major, but if anyone wants me to change the warning I'm happy to do so.  
> Comments and kudos are appreciated!  
> Enjoy!

_This ain't your boy. And I sure as hell ain't moving. So how about you walk right back out of that door and I'll let you live. Hm?" He said mockingly._

_The click of his safety coming off echoed throughout the room._

_"Or do you have a problem with that?"_

* * *

_Hellfire_

* * *

John licked his lips and changed tack.

“Bobby come on, it’s just me! I’m the boy’s father for God’s sake. And from where I’m standing” he gestured vaguely towards Dean, who whimpered and curled tighter in on himself at the attention, “it looks like you’ve been hurting my boy. So how about you just walk away and we’ll forget this ever happened, okay?”

Bobby could hear Dean’s occasional harsh breath behind him, but they were few and far between. It was as if Dean was trying to stifle any noise, like somehow if he was quiet enough he would just disappear. He angled his body so he could see Dean but keep John in his peripherals, and murmured reassurances in the hopes of calming his breathing. This, in line with the shit show this had turned into, drew John’s attention to Dean, who curled up painfully tight as if to escape his gaze.

“And you, boy. What do you think you’re doing?” he said faux reassuringly, “Come up here and I’ll make sure to treat you how you deserve.”

This didn’t receive the reaction that he seemed to expect. Dean started to shiver and for a moment his whole body tensed. Regardless, he started to uncurl from his fetal position and began to drag himself towards the stairs, his already uneven breathing hitching with every movement.

Bobby watched incredulously for a moment before he processed what was happening. He glanced back at John who was watching the proceedings as if this was an everyday occurrence, but altogether too interested for Bobby’s liking. He could have sworn that John’s eyes flashed silver, but he blinked and it was gone.

Finally remembering how to move, he stepped forward, keeping his eyes and gun on John. He crouched as smoothly as he could at his age, and rested a gentle hand on Dean’s head in what he hoped was a soothing manner. Instead of the shivers reducing like he had hoped, he received a full body flinch and drew his hand away as if he had been burned. He mentally cursed himself and straightened up, what had he been expecting would happen? At least Dean had finally stopped moving, seeming to have given up and collapsed, his face resting on the shards of wood under him.

Bobby’s arm was beginning to ache, fatigued from holding up the gun. His muscles complained for a reprieve, and with a brief glance at Dean, he agreed; this had gone on long enough.

“You’re either a sick son of a bitch, a demon or some other nasty, but either way you ain’t his daddy. I’m more of a father to this boy than you and I’m lucky if I see him once a month. Either of them. So I’ll tell you one more time. Get out of my way, John.”

The man in question snarled, dim light glancing off his teeth. Bobby could have sworn that his eyes glinted too, and shook his head to clear his vision. John turned his attention to Dean again instead, this time with a clear warning in his tone.

“Dean... Come with me and this will all be forgotten. Think about Sammy, Dean. “

Dean whimpered in response but made no move to get up again.

“Fine.” He spat, “I don’t know why you’d want him anyway, he’s useless.” He dismissed, ignoring Bobby’s increasingly tense body. “And he hurts everyone he meets. All that effort to make a soldier, and the boy’s a coward. You should have seen him, Bobby, when I poured that water over his face.” A quiet noise behind him made Bobby’s body tremble in anger.

“Do you want to know what he offered me if I stopped? I should’ve known he’d be a fag-“

The gunshot echoed off the stone walls and for a moment everything seemed to go silent.

Nobody heard Dean’s muffled cry, the noise full of surprise and pain as he futilely tried to scramble away from the events that were, at that moment, incomprehensible to him.

No one heard the sure release of breath as Bobby lowered his smoking gun with a thousand-mile stare, or the click of metal as he holstered his weapon. The reverberation was the only noise he could hear, the room was empty and bare and Bobby could all-too easily imagine Dean’s screams echoing in the same way.

Even if they weren’t temporarily deafened , nobody would have heard the quiet noise of the blood in John’s mouth overflowing, or the slight squelch of blood against leather where he pressed his jacket against the wound.

The next noise that could reliably be heard by everyone was the dull thuds of John’s body tumbling down the stairs and the muffled thump against stone where he lay at the bottom.

Dean stared blankly at the body that lay mere inches from his foot and had the ridiculous and overwhelming urge to laugh. Bobby turned from where he had been walking towards John’s body to check what he though he saw, when the hysterical noise met his ears.

Now that he was listening, he could hear the scratching in Dean's breaths, and the slight wheeze as he breathed in and out. A quick glance at Dean was all it took for him to change course and head for him instead.

He said nothing of note as he helped him off the floor and towards the steps. All throughout the awkward manoeuvring, first over John’s oddly bent arm, and then avoiding the growing puddle of blood, he murmured reassurances and tried to get Dean out of there as quickly as possible. He didn’t miss how Dean couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the body, or the way his arms rhythmically tugged against the rope, but didn’t mention either.

He left his arm reassuringly around his waist and guided him up the stairs. With John’s body out of sight, Dean seemed to follow each new blood-splattered stair until they had passed it and his eyes fixed upon the next. The light streaming down from the open door glinted on each patch of blood or puddle of water, forming a gruesome obstacle course for them to navigate. He helped Dean through the door and into the hall, carefully monitoring his breaths that had started coming quicker and quicker.

By the time they got to Bobby's truck, he was sure that Dean was hyperventilating, but at a loss of what to do. Resisting the urge to crowd him once Dean was finally sat sideways in the passenger seat, he did the next best thing and crouched so that he was leaning on the step. Dean's hand was still shaking, he noted as he carefully telegraphed his movements to capture it in his own, and draw it to his chest.

It seemed like he'd been talking him through the panic with deep, obvious breaths for hours before Dean started to relax. His breathing was much calmer now, but he was shaking so much that Bobby was surprised he hadn't fallen out of his seat yet, what with his hands still tied behind him. With more than a few quiet reassurances, he helped Dean to turn around in his seat so that he could inspect the rope again. He gave a cursory glance before deciding that it would be easier just to cut it. Dean was eyeing him over his shoulder, and while he wouldn't dream of blaming him for it, it stung.

"I'm gonna have to cut this, okay son?" he asked in the hopes of hearing a response, but when Dean's shivers only increased, he unsheathed his knife and started sawing through the rope. Due to a combination of the slick rope and Dean's tremors, he had to go slower than he would have liked, to avoid slipping, sending increasingly worried glances at Dean as his breathing sped up again.

Inspecting the bindings made him want his flask more than ever. They had torn into his skin so much that in places Bobby could barely distinguish rope from flesh: everything was drenched in blood.

Alcohol was one of his first thoughts and not just because he craved a drink. Sterilisation was important. Should he try to sterilise it? Whiskey could sterilise right? Were you meant to remove the rope before sterilising? He probably shouldn’t remove it in case it was holding the wound shut. Bobby knew all too well that you shouldn't remove stab implements; did this qualify? Maybe because the rope was unhygienic he should remove it?

Dean jerked his hands around until they were in front of him, as if he had only just processed that he was free, nearly hitting Bobby on the face in the process. The choice had been very quickly taken away from him, he realised, watching with abject horror as Dean clutched his wrists to his chest, curling over them desperately. It was heart-breaking to see him so wary and surprised that he was free. Careful attempts to recapture his wrists were rebuffed, the first time with a snarl and the second with a desperate sob.

"Okay." Bobby muttered, only half to himself, "Okay, I'll leave it, is that good Dean? I'm gonna get you some of your stuff from the house, you just wait here son."

Inside the house, he moved with ruthless efficiency, pushing two rucksacks and a holdall that he had found, with anything that could be seen as useful. He lingered the longest in Sam's room, unsure of what he should take with him.

By all rights, Sam's room was characteristic of a nerdier-than-usual, but otherwise fairly normal, twelve year old. Nothing here felt off or wrong like it had in Dean's room and it threw him off his game a little. It was one thing too be prepared to see monsters and evil in the world, or to see innocence and normality, but seeing them so close together was downright disturbing.

In the end he grabbed a pile of particularly well worn books and a couple of newer ones and a weeks worth of clothes. They could always come back, but time was of the essence here. He could have contentedly lived out the rest of his life without ever stepping foot in Dean’s “room” again, but he knew that that boy, for one, was never coming back here if he could help it.

Even the short time seemed to have softened his memory of the room, like his brain couldn’t quite comprehend what it saw. Everything was perfectly in place, and coupled with the sterility and white walls ended up reminding him painfully of a mental hospital.

He didn't hesitate to clear the shelves of this room, collecting the assorted weapons into the holdall with a grimace. The collection was still nothing short of troubling, but a good weapon was far from cheap, and hunting didn't exactly pay well.

It was unsettling to think that probably the most expensive thing that Dean owned was a shotgun and swore to himself that he would change that, gathering the meagre clothing into his arms. He ruefully admitted to himself that he would be hard-pressed to do so; a shotgun could easily cost $800. Maybe he'd get him a car.

He snapped himself out of his thoughts as he straightened up, scanning the room for any nooks or crannies where Dean might have hidden something. A first glance didn't uncover anything, and neither did the second, but that was rather the point, he supposed. He gave the room one last sweep before he left the room, the anxious protective thoughts urging him to hurry back to Dean.

Bobby was striding towards the door when a flash of pale blue caught his eye. A blanket lay across one of the sofas in the family room, and must have been one the most comfortable looking things that he had ever seen.

With a finally glance in the direction of the basement, he swept out of the door, bags slung over his shoulders and a blanket in his arms. A small bag was all that there was to show that Dean had ever lived there at all.

He quickly noticed that Dean hadn't moved from how he had been sat when Bobby left. It only took a extra few moments to throw the bags in the cargo bed, but every second his fingers missed the clip of the tarpaulin his worry grew. He could barely see Dean through the back window, but even from there he could see his shivers.

The walk back around to the passenger side seemed to take ages, but the chance of scaring Dean more was too great to risk. It didn't seem like he need have bothered, he didn't move when Bobby approached him, and made no move to indicate that he'd even noticed that he had.

Dean was staring blankly into space and shivering violently, still frantically rubbing his wrists together as if at any second his freedom would be taken away again. After attempting to gently get his attention with soft calls of his name, Bobby draped the blanket over the boy as non-threateningly as he possibly could, leaving the edges free so he wouldn't feel trapped.

It would probably be best to leave him to come back to himself on his own instead of trying to snap him out of it, but that didn't mean he was going to let Dean keep on shivering like that. No reaction was forthcoming when Bobby started the engine either, nor when he passed the rope that had been in his pocket over Dean’s neck, the amulet glinting on his chest and pushed the tiny bear into his lap.

Running out of options and becoming increasingly worried, Bobby turned on the radio, flicking the channel to find something soothing and settling on an orchestral performance of some ridiculous piece that the commentator announced was Bach.

He looked over at Dean hopefully for a reaction, and wished he hadn't. Where the blank stare had been bad, it was nothing compared to the frantically swivelling eyes and attempts to wedge himself into the corner. Swearing under his breath, he turned the radio again to the furthest thing that he could think of, a loud yelling voice over a thumping guitar.

He had never reached for the off button so quickly in his life.

A quick glance before he did so was enough to change his mind. Dean had closed his eyes and was rocking slowly in time with the guitar, starting to uncoil from his tense position and cautiously reached a hand up to his amulet, the bear rolling off his lap and onto the floor. At least Dean was still there, still with him. In the end, that was all that mattered.

Bobby drove on with a smile that day to the dulcet tones of Metallica, wondering how the hell he ever got to be there.

When, sixty miles later, Dean quietly slumped against the door, finally asleep, Bobby only smiled and tapped the steering wheel to the deafening beat of the newest song.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Dean's birthday, he'd be 42 today, which sounds much older than I imagine him. Luckily for me, I have young Dean to write to avoid the existential crisis bound to occur if I think for a moment about how crushing on him is weird with this much of an age difference. So I think I just won't think about it!


End file.
